Emotionally Weird(106)

God’s favoured time for a little chat with Mabel was in the afternoons, so once lunch was done with and the pots cleared, Mabel would sit in the ladder-back chair in the corner of the kitchen, hands folded quietly in her lap as if in a private church and wait for God to find her. Naturally, God could, if necessary, communicate at any time, even, Mabel once shyly revealed to me, when she was ‘on the WC’, which was a natural act created by God Himself. But the afternoons were the best as far as both Mabel and God were concerned, after a nice lunch – boiled bacon and salad and new potatoes and a slice of apple pie with cheese was a favourite mid-day repast (of Mabel, not God).

Listening out for God was the only time her hands were idle; the rest of the time they were the busiest hands He ever fashioned. Mabel was particularly fond of knitting; sometimes she unravelled things on purpose just so that she would have something to knit back up again.

When I first met her, in the school summer holidays when I was nearly sixteen, Mabel had already been ensconced in the house for three months. The atmosphere in Woodhaven was quite changed. Everything was clean and orderly and, possibly for the first time ever in that household, everything was peaceful – but then Effie wasn’t there and peace and Effie never lived in the same room together.

Mabel was so kind to me, always asking, Was I all right? Was I warm enough? Did I need anything knitted? Would I like something to eat? To drink? Did I want to walk? Talk? Listen to the radio? It made me realize what a cold childhood I had had, how mean-spirited my mother had been, how distant my father, and last, but not least, how peculiar and perverse my siblings.

Effie had been living in London with Edmund, the businessman, all this while and had hardly ever visited the glen or taken an interest in its goings on, so it was quite a surprise for her when she came home, wild-eyed and teetering on the brink of an unsavoury divorce, to be greeted on the doorstep of Woodhaven by Mabel Orchard proudly (yet humbly) displaying a wedding-ring and introducing herself to Effie as ‘Mrs Donald Stuart-Murray’.

Silence.

‘And?’

~And I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

I saw Bob onto the train. It seemed the least I could do, in the circumstances. I walked down to Riverside to watch the London-bound train passing over the Tay but the fog was so thick that I could hardly make out the bridge, let alone the train. The river, what I could see of it, was a cold gunmetal colour. I could have sat down by the banks of the Tay and wept (although for myself rather than Bob), but I didn’t because I had a deadline to meet.

I had to fight my way into the English department. The Tower extension was under siege from protesters, a motley crew now as it seemed anyone with any kind of grievance had begun to attach themselves to the uprising to demand a new world order – students wanting free condoms or the tied-book loan period extending, antivivisectionists, diggers and levellers, even a sprinkling of Christians – I spotted Janice Rand and her balding friend holding a hand-made sign that said ‘Overthrow sin – let Jesus into your life’. I doubted that there would be enough room.

The lift to the extension was out of order, jammed open with a mop and guarded by a boy reading Culture and Anarchy who took the time to ask me if I’d done an Emily Brontë essay and if so could he borrow it? I ignored him and hurried up the stairs where I found the English department being stoutly defended by the redoubtable Joan, standing like a guard dog at the top of the stairs and murmuring something about boiling oil. ‘I think they’ve got Professor Cousins,’ she said, looking rather pleased at the idea.

There was no sign of Maggie Mackenzie in her room and Joan seemed unsure of her whereabouts. This was very disappointing. I had gone to great lengths to hand in George Eliot on time and now Maggie Mackenzie wasn’t even there to receive her.

The door to Dr Dick’s room was closed, of course. I knew only too well why he wasn’t behind it. (Had I had sex with him? And wouldn’t I be able to tell if I had?)

Watson Grant’s door, on the other hand, was open to reveal a group of bored students to whom he was dictating like an old-fashioned dominie. He was sitting on the wide windowsill surrounded on all sides by books, and frowned when he saw me.

The door to Archie’s room was also open and I could hear his voice drifting out into the corridor –

‘Kierkegaardian dread . . . The identity of essence and phenomenon “demanded” by truth is put into effect . . .’

I tried to tiptoe past unnoticed but Archie caught sight of me and shouted, ‘What are you doing skulking about out there? Come and sit down!’ My protestations went unheeded and he almost dragged me into his room and pushed me into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.